"I think I'll go to him," said Mrs Davidson.
"If you want me, just call," said Mrs Macphail, and then when the other was gone: "I hope he isn't hurt."
"Why couldn't he mind his own business?" said Dr Macphail.
They sat in silence for a minute or two and then they both started, for the gramophone began to play once more, defiantly, and mocking voices shouted hoarsely the words of an obscene song.
Next day Mrs Davidson was pale and tired. She complained of headache, and she looked old and wizened. She told Mrs Macphail that the missionary had not slept at all; he had passed the night in a state of frightful agitation and at five had got up and gone out. A glass of beer had been thrown over him and his clothes were stained and stinking. But a sombre fire glowed in Mrs Davidson's eyes when she spoke of Miss Thompson.
"She'll bitterly rue the day when she flouted Mr Davidson," she said. "Mr Davidson has a wonderful heart and no one who is in trouble has ever gone to him without being comforted, but he has no mercy for sin, and when his righteous wrath is excited he's terrible."
"Why, what will he do?" asked Mrs Macphail.
"I don't know, but I wouldn't stand in that creature's shoes for anything in the world."
Mrs Macphail shuddered. There was something positively alarming in the triumphant assurance of the little woman's manner. They were going out together that morning, and they went down the stairs side by side. Miss Thompson's door was open, and they saw her in a bedraggled dressing-gown, cooking something in a chafing-dish.
"Good morning," she called. "Is Mr Davidson better this morning?"
They passed her in silence, with their noses in the air, as if she did not exist. They flushed, however, when she burst into a shout of derisive laughter. Mrs Davidson turned on her suddenly.
"Don't you dare to speak to me," she screamed. "If you insult me I shall have you turned out of here."
"Say, did I ask Mr Davidson to visit with me?"
"Don't answer her," whispered Mrs Macphail hurriedly.
They walked on till they were out of earshot.
"She's brazen, brazen," burst from Mrs Davidson.
And on their way home they met her strolling towards the quay. She had all her finery on. Her great white hat with its vulgar, showy flowers was an affront. She called out cheerily to them as she went by, and a couple of American sailors who were standing there grinned as the ladies set their faces to an icy stare. They got in just before the rain began to fall again.